


look, stranger, at this island now

by distira



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe- Apocalypse, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-24
Updated: 2011-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-21 21:24:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/230007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distira/pseuds/distira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's been squatting in a convenience store in his old neighborhood because there's plenty of bottled water and nonperishable food that isn’t canned (he needs to find a knife, he's been looking for one for three days now, even a Swiss Army knife would be okay, but he can't find one) but he's not the only one to have had that idea.  The glass on the doors is broken because of the three times guys have come in to steal shit, each group more violent than the last.</p><p>The Road AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The front door is locked. He pounds on it, just once. Nobody answers. He goes around to the back and climbs up the tree he always used to use to get into her bedroom when her parents were home. The glass in the window is broken, but the hole isn't big enough for him to fit through, so he gingerly reaches his hand in and undoes the lock. He grazes his forearm on a jagged edge of glass as he withdraws, but he ignores the cut. It's shallow. He pushes the window up and swings his feet in, levering himself off of the tree branch.

The house is empty. He searches anyway, hoping somebody's left. He goes through all the closets and bathrooms and he tiptoes down into the cellar even though the light doesn't work anymore.

The pantry is full. He grabs a water bottle and gulps most of it down in one go. He puts a second in his jeans pocket. It doesn't really fit and it stretches the pants too tight over his ass, but he doesn't care. He takes a jar of pickles. There's a box of donuts sitting on the kitchen counter. They're stale, but he eats one anyway. They must've been eating breakfast when-

He opens the refrigerator, but it smells like rotting fruit and dead animal.

Back in her bedroom, he looks around. He wants to take something with him, but he doesn't know what. There's a framed picture on her desk; the glass is broken, but the frame says 'Carla' in loopy cursive and she's smiling up at him, big and bright.

She's dead now.

He opens the back of the frame and takes the picture out. He folds it up and puts it in his pocket. Then he picks up the frame and throws it at the wall. The glass shatters, but he doesn't feel any better, so he kicks the leg of her desk. It shakes and hits the wall. He kicks it again, ignoring the throbbing in his big toe. He pushes everything off of its surface and then moves on to the bookshelf, picking up her Larousse Spanish-English dictionary and throwing it at the mirror hanging on the back of her door. The seven years' bad luck doesn't matter anymore. There's nothing but bad luck from here on out.

The bed squeaks when he kicks it. "Puta," he yells. Nobody replies. "I hate you, fuck-" he tears at the mattress, pulling the sheets half off. He lashes out with his feet and kicks the wall. His sneaker leaves a scuff mark. He thrashes, yells nonsense syllables.

Eventually, his fist hits broken glass from the window. He freezes except to cradle his hand to his chest. He drips blood onto her mattress and over his shirt. After a minute, he stands and goes into her bathroom. It smells like her perfume. He sees the little bottle of it sitting on the counter without a lid. He wants to take it with him, but he doesn't have anywhere to put it. He roots around in her cabinets until he finds a box of Band-Aids. They have Hello Kitty on them, in pink, and it takes three of them to stem the bleeding. He looks down at the scrape on his forearm and puts a few more over it. He shoves the rest of the Band-Aids into his pocket.

He leaves the way he came, out her window and down the tree. He walks back around to the front of the house and contemplates it for a minute. He could hole up here for a day or two if he needs to, he thinks. He doesn't want to, though.

When he turns around and hits the pavement, he starts running. The water bottle in his back pocket slows him down, so he takes it out and holds it. His pushes off of the ground with his toes, trying to see how wide he can make his strides.

Cesc doesn't know jack shit about what to do in his dead girlfriend's big, empty house, but he knows how to run, so he does.

He finds Gerard two weeks later. He's been squatting in a convenience store in his old neighborhood because there's plenty of bottled water and nonperishable food that isn’t canned (he needs to find a knife, he's been looking for one for three days now, even a Swiss Army knife would be okay, but he can't find one) but he's not the only one to have had that idea. The glass on the doors is broken because of the three times guys have come in to steal shit, each group more violent than the last.

The first time it happens, Cesc hides behind the counter and waits for the police to come.

They don't.

After that, he takes to jumping out the window in the employee bathroom whenever he thinks he hears anyone coming. He's sick of it.

There used to be a sporting goods store two streets over, so before he leaves, Cesc breaks in through the window and finds himself a hiking pack. He picks one that straps around his waist and has a sleeping bag attached to the bottom with bungee cords. Then he goes back to his convenience store and crawls in through the employee bathroom window and fills the pack up with food and water bottles. He carefully stacks canned soup, even though he doesn't have a can opener, and saltines. He takes Lucozade and a package of powdered donuts. He stuffs one of the outside pockets full of beef jerky. Then he straps the pack on, makes sure his sneakers are tied, and starts walking.

He heads for La Masia because he doesn't know where else to go.

The door to the dormitory is locked. He stands on the steps and thinks, _no, not again, no more, not here, too_. He goes around to the back door. It's locked, but one of the windows is open. The glass is cracked but not broken, and it's pushed all the way open. He slips his pack off of his shoulders, tosses it inside, and then slides in himself. It's a tight fit, but he wiggles a little and slips through. He lands heavily but springs back up and puts his pack back on.

He goes through three empty rooms before he heads upstairs for the room he'd been living in, before. He pushes the door open with his toe. It hits something solid and stops swinging abruptly. He nudges it again but it doesn't budge.

Something inside the room moves. The door twitches. He skitters backwards, pressing himself against the wall and trying not to breathe. He rises up on the balls of his feet. He can outrun most people; it's just a matter of timing. He's on the wrong side of the door to make a clean break for the stairs, so he freezes and waits.

The door opens.

"Cesc?"

Cesc blinks a few times to convince himself that Gerard is real. Then he launches himself at Gerard, pushing his face into the taller boy's chest and breathing in deeply. He fists Gerard's t-shirt and leans his whole weight on him. Gerard puts his chin on top of Cesc's head and lets Cesc hyperventilate for a minute. Then Cesc straightens up and lets go of Gerard's shirt.

"Hey," he says. He isn't sure what else to say ( _are your family- is Leo- how did you-_ are all thoughts he doesn't let himself finish thinking).

"Come in," Gerard says, kicking the door open again. Cesc goes in. His bunk bed is exactly where he left it, but the desk and chair are gone. Gerard follows him in and opens the closet door. Leo crawls out from between hangers and old uniforms and stares at Cesc for a second before hugging him.

There's canned food stacked up in the corner and two jugs of distilled water underneath the bed. Cesc takes his pack off and puts it down.

"Can I stay here?" He asks quietly.

"You think we'd let you leave?" Gerard says, and Cesc thinks, yeah, okay, maybe not _everything_ has changed.

"Everyone else-" Cesc starts to ask. He cuts himself off. He turns to look at Leo.

"Yeah," Leo says quietly. Cesc thinks of Puyi, of Andres and Xavi and Victor. "They're not." Leo coughs. "They're gone."

It's sunny outside, warm and clear. It's the perfect day for football, Cesc thinks.

"By gone, he means dead," Gerard says brusquely. Cesc blinks.

"Oh." Gerard passes him a cup. It's flat soda. Cesc takes a sip. It makes his eyes water.

The Camp Nou is in shambles. Somehow, he had expected it to be empty, untouched to memorialize the before. He feels stupid for coming here, but he makes his way into the stands anyway. He sits down in the row that was always reserved for La Masia, even though the seats are mostly broken. He looks out over the field and sees a handful of dirty, desperate people. There's a tent where one of the goals should be. He looks towards the other side of the stadium, where 'mes que un club' should be spelled out on the seats. 'Mes que' is still mostly intact, but 'un club' has been obliterated.

He remembers watching countless matches here. He remembers playing with Xavi and Andres and Puyi and Victor and Gerard and Leo, stringing together pass after beautiful pass. He remembers when they all sat in this row together and said, someday.

He wants to start yelling again. He wants to kick the seats and break the railing and tear up grass from the pitch. He wants to say, remember what this used to be? Remember what this used to mean?

Instead, he stands up and leaves, quietly and with no fuss.

"I think we should leave," he says, a week later.

Leo asks, "Why?"

He doesn't know how to answer. He just knows that he doesn't want to be here anymore. They are in the after, now, and he wants to go somewhere he didn't know, before. He wants to go somewhere he doesn't think of Carla, of Puyi, Xavi, Andres, and Victor all the time. ( _Carlota,_ he thinks, but he pushes that thought to the very back of his mind. He locks it up with _Mama_ and _Papi_ and doesn't think about it.)

Gerard finds a pair of scissors in one of the offices downstairs. He pulls the two blades apart and offers them to Leo and Cesc.

"Keep it," Leo says, shifting uncomfortably. "I wouldn't. Use it, you know?"

Cesc takes his. He puts it in between his belt and his waistband so that the blade lies flat against his hip. "Thanks, Geri."

They stay for three more days. Gerard finds some old kitbags to carry the rest of the food and water they've stored. On the last night in Cesc's old room, he reaches into his own pack and pulls out the package of donuts he took from his convenience store.

"I was saving them," he says. He doesn't know what he was saving them for. "But now's good, right?"

He tears open the package. There are six small powdered donuts. He eats his first one quickly, relishing the sugar on his tongue. The second he eats slowly, keeping each bite in his mouth until it's just mush and his tongue is dry. He licks the powdered sugar off of his fingers and takes a sip of water.

That night, he falls asleep with Geri pressed against his back, his own body curling around Leo. He uses Gerard's forearm as a pillow and lets Leo's hair tickle his chin.

"Where are we going?" Leo asks.

In his mind, Cesc never got further than 'away'. "Dunno," he says.

In the end, Gerard decides. "Madrid," he says.

"Why Madrid?" Somehow, Cesc had forgotten how with Leo, it's only ever just a question. Just to satisfy his curiosity. Never to accuse or push or dig too deep. Just to know the answer.

Gerard looks at Cesc when he answers. "Never been there before."

He likes it better once they're out of Barcelona. The roads are mostly empty. There are no car horns, no grumbling engines. There is no grind of asphalt on rubber. At first, he talks to fill the quiet. Then he realizes that he has nothing to say that isn't about before. They walk mostly in silence, then, but it's comfortable. They're still brothers in every way that counts.

Along the highway, there are no stores to pillage or houses to break into and rob. There aren't many people, just a few drifters here and there, walking with nowhere to go. Cesc sees more than one guy walking with a gun tucked in the waistband of his jeans, though. He pulls Leo and Gerard to the side of the road when he sees them and makes them wait at least five minutes until they start up again. It's slow going.

He remembers one night at the convenience store. The first night it was robbed by someone else. He remembers a guy going for the water. He remembers another guy shooting the first guy (in the thigh, Cesc saw the bullet wound when he rolled the body out onto the street) and taking the water for himself.

He doesn't know if Geri and Leo have memories like that. He doesn't ask.

They stop at every town they pass to break into a supermarket or a convenience shop or a grocery store. They never stray too far from the road. Cesc gets good at breaking windows. He's always been good at fitting in small spaces, but he's better now. He's thin; he's had to drill an extra hole in his belt to keep his pants up. They pick up food and water and Band-Aids and then they keep moving.

It's cold at night. They take turns using the sleeping bag Cesc brought. Gerard falls asleep the quickest. He was always adaptable, before. Cesc and Leo stay awake longer.

"Do you miss it?" Cesc asks one night. Gerard snores loudly.

He doesn't know why he's asking. It doesn't matter. He doesn't even know what _it_ is ( _football, paella, Carlota, the beach, Mama, Carla, Barcelona, Papi_ ).

"Of course I do," Leo tells him. He offers a small smile in the dark.

Cesc lets Leo hug him. They don't talk after that, and Cesc can't hear a thing in the night, no birds, no cicadas. He just hears Gerard snoring and Leo occasionally shifting around. Okay, he thinks. This is all there is.

  
Four days outside of Barcelona, they find an abandoned El Corte Ingles with the lights still on. The automatic are stuck in their open position, so Cesc unwraps his shirt from his hand and pulls it back on over his head. They go in and fan out the way they usually do. Cesc heads for the food aisles, Leo rummages around for first aid supplies, and Geri picks up as much water as he can carry.

He stacks energy bars into the outside pocket of his pack. The overhead lights are off. Some of them are busted, but most of them are just dark. He could probably find a knife here, a proper one, he thinks. The broken scissors work just fine, but he'd like something with a handle. He shuffles further down the aisle, squatting with his pack gripped between his knees. The scissors are tucked between his belt and his jeans, like always. He has to be careful when he bends down.

He's reaching for a packet of powdered Lucozade when he hears something crash. He stands, at full attention, and fumbles with the straps to his pack, trying to zip up all the compartments. He's in the aisle closest to the wall. Geri's two over from him. Leo is across the store.

"Fuck," he hears Gerard say, and then he looks down and sees a pair of boots in the aisle next to him. He pulls his pack on and starts towards the door, trying not to make any noise, but his sneakers squeak on the linoleum. He looks over his shoulder and sees a guy coming towards him. There's no gun, but the guy is big. Cesc shifts his weight forward, up onto the balls of his feet and thinks yeah, okay, it's a matter of timing. He lets the guy take two more steps and then starts sprinting, cuts a diagonal across two aisles and hops the counter to get out the door faster. He sees Gerard in the parking lot, by a street lamp that stopped working a long time ago, gesturing for him to follow.

The guy's faster than he thought, though, and catches up to him. He tugs at the back of Cesc's shirt as he clears the automatic doors and he goes tumbling to the ground. His lip splits open on the asphalt and he screams even though he knows it won't do any good. He thinks, get to Geri. He lurches forward, but the guy grabs at his pack, hauling him backwards. His jaw scrapes against the ground and his shoulders protest the movement. He kicks, but his foot connects with only air. He drags one of his hands around in front of him and wedges it between himself and the pavement. His knuckles scrape against the ground and he can feel his skin split. He closes his fingers around the handle of the broken scissors and brings his arm back around his body fast, jamming the scissors hard into something solid. He clips his own hipbone in the process.

The guy drops him with a howl and Cesc drags himself upright and starts running again. He can feel blood welling up in his mouth, at his hip. He sees Geri in front of him, running again, and he follows. He runs on his toes, uses his advantage in speed to even out Gerard's advantage in height. He doesn't see Leo but Leo's always been the fastest of them. He'll catch up, Cesc thinks. He has to catch up because they can't stop and wait. He reaches out in front of him and Gerard grabs his wrist and they run.

They stop only once they get back to the road and find a pit stop where people used to pull over to take pictures of the scenery. They take inventory: the PowerBars and Lucozade are gone, probably in that parking lot, and Leo still hasn't caught up with them (he will, though, Cesc thinks, he has to) so they don't have any gauze or tape, but he has the Hello Kitty Band-Aids from Carla's bathroom, so he puts three of them over the cut on his hip and lets Gerard pour water over his lip to clean it. He tears a strip from the hem of his t-shirt and holds it out to Gerard, who ties it around his knuckles.

He slides into the sleeping bag and squishes himself up next to Gerard. Gerard stays awake with him and tells him to stop playing with the cut on his lip with his teeth. Gerard tells him, "We'll find him, we'll go back for him in the morning," and Cesc believes him.

The automatic doors are still open when they go back to El Corte Ingles in the morning. More of the lights are broken and the aisles are littered with debris. They pick up more first aid supplies and replace the lost PowerBars and Lucozade. They comb every aisle for anything they might need and they check in all of the back storerooms and they don't find him.

At Cesc's insistence, they loiter for a few hours. Then they head back to the road.

They don't talk about him. Cesc locks him away in the back of his mind (adds _Leo_ to _Carlota Puyi Xavi Andres Victor Carla Mama Papi_ ). Every dead boy they pass looks like him.

They start passing a few more people as they near Madrid. Cesc doesn't let himself look up at their faces too often, just at their hands and their waistbands to see what weapons they might have, because otherwise all he sees is people he knows. Once, he sees a man with Puyi's hair and it takes all of his self-restraint to keep from calling after him.

He and Gerard walk about mile away from the road every night to set up camp. They sleep curled up together in the sleeping bag, now patched with duct tape they picked up on their first day without-

The soles of Cesc's sneakers are wearing thin. He'll have to replace them once they get to Madrid.

"Why did you go back?" Cesc asks. They're walking again, slower than usual because he tripped in a pothole when it started getting dark a day or two back and twisted his ankle. "To La Masia."

There's a long silence before Gerard answers. Cesc doesn't mind. He has nothing but time. He hooks his thumbs through the straps of his pack and feels like he's a kid on his way to his first day of school. He thinks briefly of his own school, from before La Masia. He remembers one of his teachers, the one who taught them science. He can't remember her name. He remembers all the projects she made them do, how excited he'd get to show his parents what they were working on next.

She's dead now, Cesc's pretty sure.

He unhooks his thumbs and drops his hand to his pocket for a second. The picture of Carla is still there.

"I thought someone else might be there," Geri says. "I thought, maybe- you know, right? 'Cause he didn't go home for the break."

Cesc knows. They keep walking for a few minutes. Cesc stops for a second, reaches out an arm to hold on to Geri. Gerard grabs his wrist and keeps his balance as he leans down to adjust the three socks he's wearing on his right foot. His ankle hurts. He tightens the laces on his sneaker and then straightens back up.

"He was there when I got there," Gerard says. "In the basement."

He's never been to Madrid before. He can see the city from the road now. The buildings aren't as tall as what he'd pictured. It's something to focus on, though. Step left, step right, look up, see Madrid. He gets into a rhythm. He mostly looks down when he walks. It takes him one and a half steps to cover the amount of ground Geri does with just one. There's a hole in the toe of his left sneaker. He needs to wash his socks.

A railroad crosses the highway a few miles outside of the city. They look at each other and shrug. They hop in between the tracks and keep walking. Half-erect buildings and broken cranes stare down at them as they make their way into Madrid. Here, like on the road, there is no birdsong. No cicadas or crickets chirp at night. Cesc kind of misses them.

Most of the windows are broken. It takes them a full day of walking along the railroad tracks to find a building where the windows are boarded up. There's faded graffiti on the boards, but he can't make out what it says. It's getting dark, so he nudges Geri with his elbow and points. Geri nods, so they get off of the tracks and walk across the street towards the building.

The door is unlocked.

Gerard goes in first, because he still has his half of the scissors. Cesc wishes more than anything he had a knife. Guns are no good, he thinks. Only useful until the bullets run out. He waits a beat before following Geri into the building. He hates having to follow. His ankle hurts.

There's a light switch on the wall. He flips it a few times, but nothing happens. The floorboards creak as he steps forward, keeping close to Gerard. They walk carefully across the perimeter of the room. The last of the daylight seeping through the boards against the windows is fading quickly. Cesc has to squint to make out the opposite wall.

"Shit, stairs," Gerard mutters.

The staircase runs up from the back wall. Cesc heads for it, walking slowly. The railing is dusty. He grabs it anyway when he has to put pressure on his ankle. Gerard walks next to him. He could probably take three stairs in one step, Cesc thinks. But he doesn't, taking baby steps next to Cesc.

"Hey."

His heart starts beating violently against his ribcage. Gerard pulls out the scissors. There's a guy sitting just above the first landing, where the stair turns into the wall, hidden from the first floor.

"Woah, woah," the guy says. He pulls his hands out of his pockets. His skin is dark and his fingers are long and elegant. His wrists are thin. "It's chill, I won't jump you."

They stand silently for a moment. Gerard's got his arm out in front of Cesc. The guy on the stairs moves to stand up. He's tall, almost as tall as Gerard. He slides his hands back into his pockets.

"I'm Thierry," he says.

Gerard lowers the scissors.

Upstairs, there is another boy. "Iker," Thierry tells them. Cesc stares at him hard for a moment, still half-hidden behind Gerard. Iker's cheeks are sunken into his face. Cesc nods but doesn't introduce himself.

He puts his pack down in the corner across the room from the strangers. He sits cross-legged and takes the scissors from Gerard to open a can of beans. They share it. He makes sure his back is against the wall. Every now and then, his eyes flick away from Gerard to look over at the other boys. They're older than he is. Iker has a thick layer of stubble growing over his chin and cheeks. Cesc brings a hand up to his own face. His own beard (what he used to tell himself was a beard, looking hopefully into the mirror, before) is growing in uneven patches across his jaw. He looks over at Gerard, whose face is covered with dark hair. He wonders why he hasn't noticed this before now.

When they finish eating, Cesc goes through his pack for inventory, like he does every night.

They need: a razor, a knife, soap, water, sneakers, two jackets, socks, an ACE bandage, antibiotic ointment, more duct tape, PowerBars, a football.

His hand hits a glass jar. He pulls it out from the bottom of the pack and peers at it in the dark. It's the pickles he took from Carla's house. He unscrews the lid and sniffs the brine. He pulls one out and bites into it. He chews, and the crunching is unbearably loud in the room. He puts the lid back on and tucks the jar back into his bag.

They need: a knife, water, a jacket.

Cesc licks his fingers clean of pickle brine. Gerard stands and unrolls the sleeping bag. He unzips it halfway and nudges Cesc with his toe, pointing at it. Cesc glances across the room again. He meets Iker's eyes and looks away quickly. He heaves his pack across the sleeping bag so it's between his body and the wall and then crawls into the sleeping bag. Gerard takes off his t-shirt, balls it up, and puts it between his head and the wall. He stretches his legs and folds his hands over his bare stomach.

"Come on, loser," Cesc says, holding the flap of the sleeping bag open. He swats at Gerard's arm with his free hand. Gerard has goosebumps. Gerard glances across the room, where Thierry is talking quietly with Iker. Cesc rolls his eyes. "Seriously."

Gerard puts his shirt back on and crawls into the sleeping bag.

When he wakes up, the sleeping bag is empty.

He sits up and looks frantically around the room. His pack is still tucked against the wall. The sleeping bag falls around his waist. Gerard's shoes are gone. He scrambles to his feet and buttons up his jeans. He picks up the sleeping bag and shakes it. He picks up his pack and shakes it. He kicks the wall with his good foot and yelps when it hurts more than he expected.

"Motherfucker," he yells. He kicks the wall again. He sinks down to his knees and presses his cheek against the top of his pack. "Geri," he says. His voice cracks. He claws at the sleeping bag. His fingernails drag on the fabric, threatening to tear it. He tries to take a deep breath, but he can't hold it in. He squeezes his eyes shut.

"Hey, relax," someone says. It's not Gerard. He feels a hand on his shoulder, heavy and warm. He twitches. "Relax."

"Fuck you," Cesc spits. He bites at his lower lip. He can't outrun anyone on his ankle, even though it only really hurts now when he puts weight on it. He doesn't know where the scissors are.

"He went out with Thierry," the guy says. Cesc opens his eyes.

"What?"

"Your friend." Cesc turns around. Iker's squatting, one hand braced against the wall, the other still on Cesc's shoulder. "He and Thierry went out to get water. He said to tell you he took the scissors."

Cesc's whole body crumples. He falls, half against the pack and half against Iker. He closes his eyes and waits for his heart rate to even out. Iker lets him breathe for a minute before shaking his shoulder.

"Come on," he says. "Let's get going."

Outside, Cesc has to blink the sun out of his eyes repeatedly. It seems brighter now than it did before. He doesn't know why. The air is starting to get cool during the day. The fabric of his t-shirt is thin and goosebumps rise on his arms when they walk in the shade. He hunches his shoulders and doesn't complain. His pack keeps his back warm.

Iker walks quickly. He has a white jacket. The elbows and back are dirty, but he's got the collar turned up and it looks warm. Cesc struggles to keep up with him. His strides are in between Cesc's and Gerard's in length, but his feet leave the ground quickly. He walks with his hands in his jacket pockets and he elbows drawn in against his body. He has a Swiss Army knife in his left pocket. Cesc saw him pick it up when they were leaving. He wants it.

Iker never says anything about Cesc walking slowly, but he looks over his shoulder pretty often. Cesc's starting to sweat despite the chill when they stop. His ankle feels tight, stretched out.

"Where is this?" Cesc asks. Iker points.

"It's a school," he says. He speaks quickly, too. He has a tiny lisp. "A high school, I think."

They don't bother with the door. Instead, Iker leads them around the back of the building. "Can I have your shirt?" He asks Cesc. Cesc frowns. "For the glass," Iker clarifies, gesturing at a window that's about at his shoulder level.

"Use your jacket," Cesc says, frowning. He shoves his hands into his jeans pockets. Iker quirks his lips but nods, and slips out of his jacket. He's wearing a dirty white t-shirt underneath it. He wraps the jacket over his forearm and stretches his arms over his head for a second. Cesc can see a slip of skin between his shirt and jeans. Iker's very pale. Then Iker swings his arm around to crash against the glass of the window.

"There," he says, shaking shards of glass out of the jacket before tugging it back on. Iker hoists himself up on the windowsill. His feet kick out wildly for a second and Cesc has to duck before Iker finally gets a knee over the ledge. He straddles it and holds his hand out. Cesc passes his pack up and Iker drops it inside before sliding into the building himself.

Cesc has to jump to get enough leverage to pull himself up. He tightens his abs and swings his legs for momentum. He thinks of the hours of training he used to do, back when he couldn't do a chin up. He remembers Gerard laughing at him and tickling his armpits as he hung from the bar. He swings a leg up and hooks his good foot over the ledge. He sits for a minute to get his balance, and then swings his other leg over. Iker is waiting for him. His pack is still on the ground.

It's a good five feet from the window to the ground. Cesc shifts uncomfortably. He flexes his twisted ankle experimentally. Dull pain radiates up his shin.

"Can you- um." Cesc bites his lip and breathes in through his nose. "I can't jump."

"Why not?" Iker asks, frowning. "It's not that high."

"I twisted my ankle," Cesc tells him testily. "I can't land it."

Iker steps closer to the window. He reaches up and grips Cesc's thighs, tugging him down gently. Cesc slides off of the window slowly. The back pocket of his jeans snags against a loose nail. The denim tears, and the noise makes Cesc flinch. Iker slides his grip up to Cesc's hips and Cesc lets go of the window, bracing himself on Iker's shoulders as Iker lowers him down. He puts his both feet down at once, then lets go of Iker.

"Thanks," he says, leaning over to pick up his pack.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Iker asks. Cesc slides his arms through the straps. "When we were walking. We could've slowed down."

Cesc shakes his head. "It's fine." Iker raises his eyebrows, but Cesc looks away. He doesn't like asking for help. "It's not that bad."

Iker doesn't press. Instead, they start poking around. They're in a classroom. Some of the desks are broken. There's a map of the ancient world hanging on one of the walls. Part of the Roman Empire is missing. Iker heads straight for the desk at the front of the room and starts rifling through the drawers.

"What are you looking for?" Cesc asks. He finds Spain on the map. He puts his finger where he knows Barcelona is.

When he looks back over at Iker, he's holding up a box of safety pins and a stapler. "C'mere," Iker says. Cesc makes his way to the desk. "Turn around." Cesc makes a face. "I'm just gonna fix your pocket, relax."

Iker staples the pocket three times and then puts the stapler back into the desk. "That should hold for a bit," he says. He pockets the safety pins.

They go out into the hallway. "Why are we here?" Cesc asks.

"People go for grocery stores or malls or convenience stores to find shit," Iker says. "Nobody thinks of schools."

Scavenging, then. Cesc shrugs. He thinks of the convenience store he'd stayed in at the beginning, all the stores he and Gerard have looted between here and Barcelona. They head down the hallways and peek into every classroom. Most have nothing worth taking. There's still food in the cafeteria, though, giant, bulk cans of peanut butter and applesauce. Iker finds a few garbage bags and takes as much as he can carry.

In the library, some of the shelves have tipped over, but there's a rack of magazines near the circulation desk. Cesc grabs one with Pep Guardiola on the cover. He rolls it up and puts it in the side pocket of his pack. Iker frowns but doesn't say anything.

In one of the science labs, they find two unopened jugs of distilled water. They put one in Cesc's pack, but the second won't fit, so Cesc just carries it.

"We'll come back for more," Iker says after they've finished getting the pack zipped up again.

He helps Cesc down from the window on the way out without waiting for Cesc to ask.

"Take your sock off?"

Cesc frowns. He's sitting on top of the sleeping bag, his head resting on Gerard's shoulder. Iker is arranging the food they took from the school cafeteria against the wall. Gerard and Thierry were already there when he and Iker got back.

"Why?" He says instead. Iker pulls out his Swiss Army knife and starts opening a can of peanut butter. Cesc turns to Thierry, who's sitting against the wall, shoulders relaxed. His hands are clasped over his stomach.

"I was an athletic trainer, before," Thierry says. He smiles a little bit. "Iker said you twisted your ankle, so. I could take a look, if you want."

Cesc hesitates. He stares baldly at Thierry, who just shrugs and leans back against the wall. He sits cross-legged. The denim of his jeans is worn soft at the knees. Cesc flexes his ankle. He can feel his heart beating on the outside of it, but it doesn't hurt as much as it did a few days ago. He frowns.

"Can't hurt," Gerard mumbles. He'd probably shrug, if Cesc's head wasn't on his shoulder.

Thierry looks to Cesc for confirmation before he moves. Cesc bites his lip and nods. He reaches to pull his sock of, but Thierry's already there, peeling the fabric back. His fingers are warm where they brush against Cesc's skin.

The bruising has started to go down, but there's still a small swollen lump on the outside of Cesc's ankle. The skin is mostly yellow-green, with a few spots of mottled purple in places. The outside of his foot feels fat, but he can wiggle all of his toes. Thierry's hands are against the yellow. His skin is soft. Cesc rubs his own hands together, feels how rough the skin is, calloused from climbing in too many windows.

The questions Thierry asks him ("Does it hurt when I do this? When you put weight on it? Can you draw a circle with your toes?") remind Cesc of sitting on the training tables at La Masia.

"Keep it elevated," Thierry says finally. "It's just a sprain, I don't think there's a ligament tear or anything. I'll wrap it for you if we can find some tape, but it's mostly healing on its own. You'll be fine in a day or so."

Cesc thinks, aren't you supposed to keep it elevated right after it happens? He figures it'll be useless, but it's not like he has anything better to do, so he shuffles over against the wall a little and sticks his foot in Gerard's lap. "Thanks," he says. Thierry smiles.

"No problem," he says. Cesc doesn't smile back, but it doesn't seem to deter Thierry.

"Where did you work?" Cesc asks. Thierry sits down and stretches long legs out in front of him. "Before."

"Here and there," Thierry says, waving his hand. "London, mostly. I was in Spain to look at moving to Madrid or Barcelona, but." He breaks off and looks solemn for the first time since Cesc had met him.

"You aren't English," Cesc barrels on. It's the first time he's had the chance to talk to someone who seems willing to make conversation, someone that isn't Gerard. He likes talking to Gerard, but sometimes it just makes him think of everything he tries not to think about.

"No," Thierry agrees. "I'm French. I worked there for a bit too, a long time ago."

"What about you?" Cesc asks, turning to Iker. He's sitting across the room, the peanut butter and the Swiss Army knife both out of sight. He doesn't sit as comfortably as Thierry does. His shoulders are perfectly straight.

"Hmm?"

"What did you do, before?" Cesc presses. He doesn't see Thierry pressing his full lips together and shaking his head _no_ until it's too late.

Iker doesn't answer for a long minute. Cesc wonders if he's going to. "I was a policeman," Iker says finally. His voice is tight.

"Oh," Cesc replies quietly. He thinks, yeah, that fits.

He sleeps for most of the next day and wakes up sometime in the afternoon, disgruntled. His ear hurts from being folded under his head for too long.

"Why didn't you wake me up?" He asks, frowning at Gerard. Gerard shrugs.

"It's Sunday," Thierry says from across the room.

"Is it really?" Cesc hasn't been keeping track of the days. There's no point, he thinks. There isn't school to worry about now, or training, or matchdays.

Thierry shrugs and nods. "I count seven from when- from before. And that's Sunday."

"I think we should move," Thierry says. His voice is quiet and low and with his accent, he's almost unintelligible. Cesc shifts in the sleeping bag, not opening his eyes. Gerard's arm is trapping him, curled between the wall and his body. Cesc pushes at it until Gerard rolls over. Cesc smashes his face into Gerard's shoulder.

"Really? Nobody's here but us," Iker replies. Cesc shifts until his ear is pressed against Gerard, trying to block it out.

"That's what I thought with Téa," Cesc hears Thierry say. He wonders if Téa was his wife, and why he doesn't have a ring.

"Hey, it's okay," Iker says. Cesc hasn't thought of him as a comforting person until now. He hears shuffling. "She's-"

"Don't," Thierry says. He sounds defeated. Cesc feels guilty for listening. "I'm gonna start looking in the morning."

Iker doesn't say anything, so Cesc shuffles around again. Gerard grunts in his sleep and rolls over, tangling Cesc up in his too-long limbs. Cesc breathes in to the fabric of Gerard's shirt and wonders if Thierry has a list like he does (Leo Andres Victor Carla Xavi Puyi Carlota Mama Papi). He wonders if Iker does, too. He thinks, maybe Leo had it the best of them, hadn't seen his family in years-

The duct tape they use to keep the zipper of the sleeping bag in place sticks to Cesc's skin when he presses against it. He pulls his arm back slowly, feeling the hair on his forearm resist. He repeats the motion until he falls asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Routine comes easily. Gerard and Thierry go out in the mornings, and Cesc and Iker go out in the afternoon. At first, Cesc and Gerard only split up out of necessity, because neither of them knows the city. Then it just becomes habit. After a while, Cesc stops panicking when he wakes up in an empty sleeping bag.

 

They need: winter coats, boots, clean socks, toothpaste, breakfast cereal, water bottles, a knife, a box of donuts, duct tape, a needle, thread, a pillow, a football.

Cesc takes the jar of pickles out of his pack. He sets it on the floor and hesitates for a second before pulling the picture of Carla out of his pocket. It's creased down the middle. He smoothes it out as best he can. The edges are crinkled, but he can still see her smile.

"Who's that?" Iker asks.

In the mornings, Cesc takes inventory while Iker dozes. When Iker wakes up, they eat, and then they wait for Gerard and Thierry to come back. He distracts himself from going through his mental list (Leo Andres Victor Carla Xavi Puyi Carlota Mama Papi) by talking to Iker, who doesn't always talk back, but who does usually listen. It's easier to talk to Thierry, who can make pleasant conversation about nothing.

"Carla," Cesc tells him. He squats down and pushes the picture across the floorboard slowly. Iker makes an aborted reach for it, but stops before his fingertips touch it. His hand hovers for a moment before he curls his fingers into a fist and brings his elbow to rest on his knee. He looks sad, Cesc thinks. His eyelashes cast long shadows over his cheeks.

"Pretty," Iker says after a moment. Cesc opens the jar of pickles and takes one out. He breaks it in half and offers a piece to Iker. He takes it. Cesc picks up the jar and drinks some of the brine before he puts it back in his pack.

They need: a winter coat, socks, a knife, duct tape.

 

"Hey," Gerard says when he and Thierry get back. Cesc jerks his head up. "Found you something."

Gerard pulls a knife out of his back pocket. He offers it to Cesc handle first. Cesc beams up at him. "Awesome," he says, taking the knife. He considers it for a second before sliding it between his belt and his waistband. "Thanks."

Cesc rummages through his pack for a second before he finds the magazine he took from the school. He unrolls it carefully and runs his hand over the cover. Pep Guardiola stares up at him, not quite smiling. He'd smiled at Cesc once, when his parents were getting their divorce and Cesc was playing like shit. He'd signed a shirt and told Cesc that he'd be the Barcelona number four one day, and he'd smiled, just for Cesc.

He's dead now.

Cesc rests his cheek on Gerard's shoulder and holds the magazine so it's between them when he opens it. Gerard holds one side. Cesc turns the pages. They sit like that until it gets too dark to read, and then Cesc rolls the magazine back up and slides it into the pocket of his pack.

"He was a good player," Thierry says, looking over at them. Cesc startles a little. He'd forgotten Thierry and Iker were in the room.

"Yeah," he agrees. He starts to unroll the sleeping bag. He's not tired, but it's cold. "Did you know him?"

"Mmhmm," Thierry answers. It's a statement of fact, nothing more. "Not well, but I'd met him a few times, at matches."

"Us, too," Cesc says. He doesn't want to think about La Masia, though, so he turns around, takes his belt off and undoes the button of his jeans. They nearly slide off of his hips as he crawls into the sleeping bag. "We should find another one of these," he says, zipping the side half of the way up. "Don't you two get cold?"

"We'll look for one tomorrow," Iker says. Thierry shrugs.

Cesc picks up his knife and his belt and starts drilling a new hole.

 

"Here," Iker says. Cesc scuffs his toe into the sidewalk. The hole in his sneaker is big enough that he can feel the concrete snagging against his sock.

It's a house. They're standing in front of a house.

He's hasn't been in a house since he was in Carla's house. His hand moves automatically to his front pocket but it's empty, the picture of her tucked safely into his pack, next to the pickle jar, because it had been poking his thigh when he rolled onto his side to sleep.

"Okay," Cesc says.

He's ready for Iker to smash the window in, but instead, Iker pulls out a key.

It fits, and the door opens.

 

"So," Cesc says.

There are pictures of Iker on the mantle. The glass is cracked but Iker at varying ages stares out of the frames nonetheless. The furniture is mostly overturned and one of the kitchen windows is broken. There isn't any food or water. Cesc turns away from the mantle to look at the real Iker. He has deeper circles underneath his eyes. The lines in his forehead that are only in the pictures of him laughing are permanent.

Iker loops his fingers around Cesc's wrist and tugs him out of the living room. Cesc follows him up the stairs and into a bedroom. He frowns for the way Iker's free hand automatically goes for the light switch to the left of the door. He drops it halfway there and clenches his fist in midair.

"This is your house," Cesc pushes. Iker's grip on his wrist tightens. Cesc imagines he can feel Iker's fingers searing into his skin, that later when he snuggles into the sleeping bag with Gerard, he'll be able to look at his wrist and see the whorls of Iker's fingerprints.

"My parents' house," Iker corrects.

There's a closet. Iker lets go of Cesc and opens the door. Cesc flops down on the bed and presses his face into the spot where a pillow should be. The sheets are dirty.

Iker comes back holding a puffy winter coat. "It's big," he says. "But we can share it, the four of us."

"Sure," Cesc says. He rolls so that his back is to the wall. He looks up at Iker until Iker sits down on the edge of the bed. "Why are we here?"

"We needed a coat," Iker answers.

Cesc closes his eyes and stretches his hands out over his head. He kicks the wall a few times, not hard. "We can take the blanket, too," he says, picking up the corner of it and rolling himself halfway into a cocoon. "Yeah?"

"Sure," Iker says. He's quiet.

Cesc reaches for Iker's shoulder. He doesn't know what to say. He thinks, at least Iker isn't pulling the sheets off the bed and screaming and cutting his hand on the broken window.

Iker relaxes into the touch, though, so Cesc pulls him down until they're lying side by side on the twin bed. It's a tight fit. Cesc can feel Iker's thigh against his, solid and warm. They stay like that until the sun starts to slant in the window, orange in the way of late afternoon, and then Cesc ties the blanket across his shoulders and Iker tucks the coat under his arm.

 

Before they leave Iker's house, Iker ducks into a closet near the front door and comes out holding a football.

It's dirty and going flat. When Iker hands it to Cesc, he can push the leather down with his fingers. He drops it and catches it on the top of his foot.

"Did you play?" He asks. "Before."

"No," Iker says.

He lets Cesc out the front door first. He turns and locks it even though the window next to it is cracked.

"I played," Cesc says. He puts the ball on the ground and nudges it with the outside of his foot as they walk. "That's what I did."

"I know," Iker says. "What position?"

"Midfield," Cesc says. He lifts the ball and catches it. He tucks it under his arm. The blanket floats out behind him as they walk.

 

He takes inventory when they get back. He has three pickles left, and about half of the brine. They have the sleeping bag and the blanket and the coat. His picture of Carla is tucked into the pocket of his pack, and the knife Gerard gave him is between his belt and his jeans. He has a football.

They need: water, duct tape, socks.

 

"We're leaving tomorrow," Thierry says.

Cesc frowns.

"Okay," Gerard says. He nudges Cesc with his elbow.

"Where are we going?" Cesc asks.

 

The sleeping bag and the blanket both fit into Cesc's pack, but Cesc ties the blanket around his shoulders again anyway. When the wind kicks up, he grabs it and pulls it across his chest. It's cold during the day now, and he wishes he had more than just his t-shirt.

He and Gerard kick the football back and forth as they walk. Sometimes Thierry gets his toe in the way of a pass.

Cesc kicks the ball at Iker once, lifts it off the ground and aims for the space next to Iker's hip. Iker reaches for it and snatches it out of the air fast enough that Cesc wonders if he was telling the truth when he said he didn't play.

 

The Bernabéu is in ruins.

They pass it as they get further into the city.

"Remember when-" Cesc starts, looking at Gerard.

"Yeah," Gerard says.

He doesn't let himself really think about it, because he has it locked away with Leo Puyi Carla Mama Papi Carlota Xavi Andres Victor, but he remembers wanting. He remembers wanting to conquer this stadium, this city.

When he looks around, he thinks that maybe Madrid isn't so different from Barcelona, after all.

 

"What would you do," Thierry asks, "if you could do anything?"

Cesc doesn't know why he hasn't thought about it before, because he can do anything now. Go home, he thinks. Go back to El Corte Ingles and keep looking for-

"Dunno," he says. "You?"

They're in an old office building. The doors were barricaded with desks, but Iker had smashed the window and Cesc had wriggled through and moved the furniture so they could all get in. They aren't going to stay for more than a day or two, but it's comfortable enough.

"Sleep for days," Thierry says wistfully. Cesc hitches up his pants. He was always skinny, but now, on his diet of peanut butter and pickles, he's pretty sure Leo could tackle him without a problem. He coughs.

"You can do that," he tells Thierry.

Thierry shrugs and smiles halfway. "Sure," he says.

 

They stay on the first floor. The building is cold. Cesc spreads the blanket out on the floor and unzips the sleeping bag to use as a comforter. They take turns bunching up the jacket and using it as a pillow.

Thierry snores lightly when he sleeps. He doesn't sleep very often. Cesc only hears his breathing even out for a few hours every night.

Iker stays perfectly still when he sleeps. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, with Gerard on one side and Iker on the other, Cesc shuffles closer to Iker and presses their shoulders together until Iker caves and lets his body conform to Cesc's.

 

"We should leave Madrid," Iker decides.

Thierry shrugs. Gerard nods. Cesc thinks about the key Iker keeps in his pocket and hesitates. The city means nothing to him, but then he thinks about La Masia. He figures that if Iker keeps his house key in his front pocket, he probably cares.

"Are you sure?" he asks.

Iker nods. Cesc blinks at him. "I'm sure," Iker says. "There's nothing left here."

It doesn't take long to pack. Cesc goes through their inventory one more time. He only has two pickles left, so he and Gerard split one and Thierry and Iker split the other, and then he drinks the rest of the brine. They keep the jar.

He wraps the blanket around his shoulders. Gerard takes the coat from Iker's closet. Iker pulls his white jacket tight around his body and stuff his hands in his pockets. Thierry tugs his sleeves down over his knuckles.

They climb out the window one by one.

"Where are we going?" Gerard asks.

"I knew a guy in Sevilla, once," Iker says. "We could go there."

"I've never been there," Cesc says.

 

The road out of Madrid is empty.

The first night out, they walk about a mile away from the road and open the sleeping bag, just like they did when it was just Cesc and Gerard and-

Cesc and Gerard get into the sleeping bag and Thierry and Iker roll themselves up in the blanket. Cesc wakes up too early, curled into a ball against Gerard, blinking the watery winter sunlight out of his eyes. Gerard's the only one still asleep.

"Get him up," Thierry suggests. "Might as well get going."

 

Cesc doesn't look at the picture of Carla anymore. It's been folded too many times and her face is starting to distort. He keeps it in his pocket, though, and sometimes he hooks his thumbs through his belt loop and dips his fingers into his pockets. He's starting to forget how she looks. He can remember the part of her hair and the scent of her sheets, but not the color of her eyes or how she smiles.

Sometimes he catches Iker watching him as he tries to remember the way her voice sounded.

"It's easier once you forget," Iker tells him three days outside of Madrid. Thierry and Gerard are walking just far enough ahead of them so that Cesc can only hear the murmur of their voices and not actual words.

"Who did you forget?" Cesc asks. He goes through his own list and thinks, he doesn't want to forget.

"My brother," Iker says. "The guy from Sevilla."

"If you forgot him, why are we going there?"

"I remember the idea of him," Iker tells Cesc.

"What was he like?" Cesc asks.

"Warm," Iker says. "Loud. He liked to dance. He talked about Sevilla like it was the best place in the world."

"Sounds nice," Cesc says absently.

"He was, but." Iker says. "So it's easier, this way."

"I don't think I want to forget," Cesc tells him. "But I can think about other things."

Iker smiles at him but it's not the kind of smile that makes his eyes crinkle like they did in the photographs on the mantle at his house. Cesc reaches up and tugs at the corners of Iker's mouth until he smiles a little bit more and his dimple appears.

"I like your dimple," Cesc tells him. Iker ducks his head, and they keep walking.

 

On the fourth day out of Madrid, they pass an El Corte Ingles. The automatic doors are shut and the lampposts in the parking lot are broken. Cesc reaches instinctively for the knife he keeps between his belt and his waistband. He thinks, if he has to outrun anyone, he'll have to leave the blanket behind.

"Come on," Thierry says, turning off of the road and heading for the parking lot. Cesc and Gerard don't move.

"No," Gerard says, finally. Thierry frowns.

"Why not?" Thierry asks.

Cesc looks down. He'd taken an extra pair of socks from Iker's house, but his shoes still have holes in them. He rubs his toe into the dirt on the side of the road. It doesn't change the color of the canvas on his sneakers. He wiggles his little toe. "We can't," he says.

"We can break the doors," Iker says quietly. "We've done it before."

"It's not that," Cesc says. He takes a deep breath before looking up at Iker. "We just. It's one of those things I don't want to forget, okay? We can't."

"Oh," Iker says.

"Well," Thierry says slowly, "Iker and I can go and you two can wait here."

"No," Gerard and Cesc say at the same time.

"We need water," Thierry says, and Cesc can tell that he's getting to the end of his patience. He holds up the jug he's holding and sloshes the water around in it. It's about half full. "We have two of these and that's it. We have to go in."

"We'll find somewhere else," Cesc pleads. He looks at Iker. It's easy to focus on the way Iker's eyes are wide in his pale face, how his hair is starting to curl at the nape of his neck because it's getting too long. "Please."

"Okay," Iker says. Thierry makes a noise of protest, but Iker shakes his head. "Okay."

They keep walking.

 

They need: a razor, scissors, two pairs of sneakers, a pillow, a tent, water, Lucozade, power bars, a goal, a Barcelona kit.

It's cold enough that they make small fires in the evenings. Never large enough to send a smokestack, just big enough to crowd around. Cesc puts himself between Iker and Gerard and shoves his hands in his armpits to keep them warm.

They need: water.

 

Sevilla, in all its ancient glory, is razed to the ground.

They stay the night anyway. "Not like there's anywhere else to go," Gerard says. They're in a city square. Cesc shrugs off his pack and pulls out the football.

"Let's play," he says, because Sevilla is just like Madrid and Barcelona, nothing like home, and he wants-

He kicks the ball at Gerard, and they start off playing one on one in the square. The sun is at high noon and it's blinding in its intensity, so much brighter now than it was before. Cesc flicks the ball up in the air and feels how much thinner he is now, but his muscles still know what to do, because this is all he's ever known. He catches the ball on the laces of his worn-out sneakers and tosses it to Gerard and they get going with little one-touch passes up and down what's left of the square. He's out of breath after five minutes, but he doesn't want to stop, because if he pushes just a little bit harder, he can pretend he's at La Masia and not surrounded by a ruined city that's just like every other ruined city in Spain.

They play all afternoon. Cesc's pack is one makeshift goal; the other is the door to a building across the square. Cesc and Iker play against Gerard and Thierry and they don't keep score, they just keep playing until it gets dark and there's a stitch in Cesc's side.

 

A block away, they find a cathedral. There are holes in the roof and the doors are battered, but it's shelter. Iker breaks one of the stained glass windows, his elbow punching through Santa Justa, and they all climb in.

Gerard falls asleep right after they eat. They've finished most of the food they brought with them. Cesc wonders if they can find another school cafeteria while they're here. Thierry stretches out next to Gerard. Cesc can't tell if he's sleeping or just resting.

For his part, Cesc unrolls the magazine with Pep on the cover. He looks at Pep's smile for a minute. Iker leans over his shoulder.

"I was going to be like him," Cesc says. "I was going to have the number four."

"You're better than him," Iker says.

"Nobody was better than him," Cesc tells him.

Iker shrugs. "You are."

He stands up and offers his hand to Cesc. Cesc takes it and follows Iker as they leave the main chapel and head for the tower. Iker's skin is hot against his, and Cesc can feel the lines of his palm. Iker has callouses and his skin is tough, not soft the way it looks. Cesc wonders if it was like this before, too.

The tower is partly destroyed, so they only make it about halfway up the spiral stairs before there's a hole in the stone wall, large enough for Cesc to lie down across. He doesn't, though. They sit on the stairs and Cesc looks out at the sky. It's darker than it was before, at night, and colder. The stars are smudges, not pinpricks.

"So you were a policeman," Cesc says, because he wants to know.

"Yeah," Iker says.

"Were you good?" Cesc asks.

"Sure," Iker says. "I tried to be good."

Cesc pulls his knees in towards his chest. "I bet you were," he says. "Even after."

"I tried," Iker says again. "After. I tried."

He looks tired and broken and sad. He looks how Cesc feels. Cesc thinks of the picture of Carla folded up in his pocket and tries to remember how she felt against him. All he can remember is cutting his hand on the window of her room, right after.

"You tried," Cesc says. He thinks of back when he was squatting in convenience stores and hiding in the bathroom whenever he thought he heard someone coming. "That matters. That you tried."

"Yeah?" Iker asks.

The way they're sitting, Iker's beard tickles his skin. Their shoulders are touching and Iker is warm despite the chill from outside, so Cesc squats and moves to sit on top of Iker, chest to chest. He makes sure to tuck the knife out of the way.

"Yeah," he says. He leans forward just slightly and kisses Iker. He tries to remember Carla's kisses, but he can't, all he can think of is the scratch of Iker's beard against his own and the way Iker's upper lip is more chapped than the lower one.

Iker's hands comes to rest at Cesc's lower back and they stay like that until the star smudges start to fade into pale pink dawn.

 

They stay in Sevilla for two more days.

 

"I'm going to go back to France," Thierry says.

It's midday on the second day.

"Why?" Gerard asks.

"It feels right," Thierry says, "to be where you're from at a time like this."

Nobody argues.

 

"I want to go to the beach," Cesc says, a half an hour later.

Gerard kicks his shin. "Why?"

"It's something to do," Cesc tells him. Something, he thinks, that isn't walking from empty city to empty city, pretending not to remember.

 

Thierry agrees to stay in Sevilla with Gerard until Cesc gets back. Iker says he knows where a good beach is.

They split up their rations. Cesc and Iker take the sleeping bag. Gerard and Thierry keep the coat and the blanket.

"Make sure you come back," Gerard tells Cesc. Cesc promises.

"If you're here, I have to come back," he says.

 

"Why the beach?" Iker asks.

Cesc looks down. The asphalt is cracked and he can't see the lines on the road. He adjusts his pack. "You know how Thierry wants to go back to France?" Iker nods. "It's like that, kind of."

"You aren't from the beach," Iker says.

They walk for a while in silence. The sole of Cesc's sneaker is peeling away from the uppers. It makes a slapping noise with every step he takes. Cesc tries to match his breathing to his walking. Two steps, inhale. Two steps, exhale.

"I used to go to the beach, before," he says. "On vacation from La Masia."

"With Gerard?" Iker asks.

"No," Cesc says. He thinks, with Carlota Mama Papi.

"Okay," Iker says after a beat. "Okay."

 

There is no white sand on the beach.

Instead, the sand is the color of dirt and the water is murky and green. Cesc takes his shoes off anyway and digs his toes into the sand. It isn't warm.

"You'll freeze if you swim," Iker says. He sits down and Cesc shrugs his pack off. Iker takes it.

"I'm going to anyway," Cesc says. He pulls his shirt off over his head and starts undoing his belt. As soon as he gets the buckle undone, his jeans slip a few inches on his hips.

"Why?" Iker asks.

"Doesn't matter if I freeze," Cesc shrugs even though he thinks of Geri waiting in Sevilla and knows it isn't true.

He kicks his jeans off and folds them into a pile with the rest of his clothes. He takes his boxers off, too, because he doesn't want to get them wet. His legs are thinner than they were, before. He imagines himself looking like a stick figure.

"It does," Iker says, after Cesc's turned around and is halfway to the water. "Matter. It does."

Cesc stops. "Come with me, then," he offers. He wraps his arms around himself while Iker stands and undresses. He's pale all over.

The water's cold but Cesc ducks his head under, anyway. Iker stands with the water up to his knees and watches. Cesc splashes him with the murky water.

"It was blue, before," Iker says. "And the sand was white."

"Did you come here with him?" Cesc asks. Iker nods.

A lot of things were white, before.

 

They leave the beach a few hours later. Cesc's hair dries in the wind and sticks up in the back.

 

There's a house about a mile away from the water. The paint is peeling and the screen doors have been ripped off, but most of the windows are intact and the front door is unlocked. Iker goes in first. Cesc has his knife in his hand.

It's empty. Cesc can smell rotting food coming from the kitchen, so they open a window even though it's cold outside.

"When did you meet Thierry?" Cesc asks. They're sitting on the couch, squeezes onto two cushions because the third has been torn open. He's curled against the arm of the couch. His toes poke Iker's thigh.

"After," Iker says. "I found him. He'd just lost his daughter."

"Oh," Cesc says.

"Should we go upstairs?" Iker asks after a minute. "To find beds."

"No," Cesc says. "Let's stay here."

He kicks gently and stretches his legs out. Iker laughs. "Okay," he says and lets Cesc tug on his shoulder until Iker's lying down next to him. Cesc leans up and kisses Iker gently.

"Why?" Iker asks. He reaches a hand down between them and Cesc arches his hips up, lets him. Iker slides his hand into Cesc's front pocket and pulls out the picture of Carla. "Because of her?"

"No," Cesc says. He takes the picture from Iker and puts it on top of his pack. He doesn't remember what Carla's smile looks like. He reaches over and tugs on the corner of Iker's lips until he half-smiles. His dimple is partially obscured by beard now, but Cesc knows where it is anyway. "Because of you."

"Okay," Iker says again, and leans down to kiss Cesc again.

This time, when he reaches between their bodies, he doesn't go for Cesc's pocket. Cesc arches up and Iker's hand is nothing more than a firm pressure against him, but it's enough.

 

Cesc wakes up first in the morning. The sun is bright even though it isn't noon. He blinks a few times to let his eyes adjust.

He eats half a PowerBar and leaves the other half in the wrapper for Iker.

 

"Where are you going to go now?" Iker asks as they start walking back towards Sevilla.

"I don't know," Cesc says. He hasn't thought that far yet. All he's thought is Sevilla. Gerard. He keeps his promises.

 

"Maybe we should leave Spain," Iker suggests about an hour outside of Sevilla.

"I've never left before," Cesc tells him. "Gerard went to England once, but I've never."

"Would you?" Iker asks.

"I was kind of thinking that I would stay," Cesc says. "I mean. Why leave now?"

They walk for a while. Cesc's fingers are cold. He keeps them in his pockets. Every now and then, he takes them out to blow on them. Sometimes, Iker takes them between his hands and rubs warmth into them.

"Why not leave now?" Iker asks. "Everything's like Spain, now."

Cesc can see Sevilla on the burning orange horizon. He thinks of Leo Carla Carlota Puyi Victor Andres and all the plans they had to see Paris, Rome, London.

"Okay," he says, and they keep walking.

**Author's Note:**

> i owe a gigantic thank you and my firstborn and basically my entire life to [](http://cafune.livejournal.com/profile)[**cafune**](http://cafune.livejournal.com/) , who converted me to iker/cesc in the first place and let me spam her with this for the past five months and 25 days, because that's how long it took me to finish this thing. i think i told you at one point bb that i would write you a sonnet and i will, i promise, but when i'm slightly less tired. thanks also goes to [](http://foxing.livejournal.com/profile)[**foxing**](http://foxing.livejournal.com/) for listening to me bitch, [](http://snuzzie.livejournal.com/profile)[**snuzzie**](http://snuzzie.livejournal.com/) and [](http://influira.livejournal.com/profile)[**influira**](http://influira.livejournal.com/) for reading various bits and piece, and of course my secondborn goes to [](http://everyforever.livejournal.com/profile)[**everyforever**](http://everyforever.livejournal.com/) for beta reading the finished product and reassuring me that this wasn't absolute crap.


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